


if all else perished, and we remained

by bramblecircuit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Enthusiastic Consent, Ghost Sasha James, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, One Shot, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Pressure kink, Selfcest, Teasing, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, so sorry to my author subscribers getting this in their inbox in the middle of the workday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblecircuit/pseuds/bramblecircuit
Summary: Martin looked from his other self to the ghost of his old friend.“You’re—how—”“Not supposed to be here. I know.” Sasha floated onto the wall just beside the other Martin. She was close to him, settling her body so near the other man’s it made Martin’s throat ache.The end of the world is already here. Martin might as well wind down with the two people who know him best.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood/Sasha James, Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	if all else perished, and we remained

_I’m kissing myself._ The thought kept floating into his mind, chased out by the fuzzy, delightful confusion of feeling his own lips against his face. His own aggressive hands pulling at the scruff of his collar, sliding under the hem of his shirt. His own tongue working his mouth open, his own gentle, maddening laziness. He pressed hesitantly against the other Martin’s chest.

“Sorry,” he muttered, breaking away from the kiss. “Is this...? Sorry.”

“Don’t.” The other Martin pressed a hand to the back of Martin’s head and eradicated the distance.

It was almost unnerving, the way the other Martin didn’t make him ask for anything. He wanted force, and he was pinned back against the stone, soft rain trickling down his neck. He wanted permission to fall apart, and there he was, whispering the sweetest encouragements, the most heartfelt reassurance. 

From any other person, this would’ve been unsatisfying—clothes damp, another man’s hand pushed into the waistband of his pants, the rough, jolting climax. But it was him. He was holding himself, teasing his own fingers through his hair as he panted against the other Martin’s neck. 

“You’re not—not exactly me, are you?”

“Not quite.” The other Martin rearranged his sweater, perched himself so he straddled the wall. “Like you, but if some factors were shifted.”

“Oh.” Martin looked down at the tea he’d been offered, his murky reflection wavering in the cold, rippling liquid. “You seem nicer than me.”

The other Martin scoffed.

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“No, I mean…” Martin swirled the tea around the thermos cup. “More…put together. Like you’re composed differently, or something.” 

“You’re the only one with odd ends, then?”

“I’ve got more of them,” Martin said softly. “You’re the one in here. You know what you’re doing. Out there…” The other Martin nodded thoughtfully and took a swig of tea.

“Maybe you’re right. But it’s not a judgement. It’s just a fact.”

Martin would’ve replied to that if he could—a half-hearted quip, maybe, teasing around the sincere self-doubt he’d felt gnawing at him ever since he laid eyes on his other self—but he was interrupted by a familiar voice that made his heart seize up with joy.

“I see you’ve got a friend this time, Martin.” Martin raised his eyes to look, unbelievably, at Sasha James. Sasha, his old coworker, lost in the tunnels and taken by the worms. The very same Sasha that leaned over his arm to fix an issue with his computer, her legs propped up on her desk by the time IT finally wandered into the archives. The Sasha that for three weeks he tried to muster up the courage to ask out for a drink, who was gone before he could push the words out of his throat.

It was in trying not to let his old crush get the better of him that he noticed, finally, that the edges of her arms weren’t quite defined. She floated a few inches off the ground, and when she leaned to kiss the other Martin on the cheek, Martin felt a slight shiver skid across his face. 

Martin looked from his other self to the ghost of his old friend. 

“You’re—how—”

“Not supposed to be here. I know.” Sasha floated onto the wall just beside the other Martin. She was close to him, settling her body so near the other man’s it made Martin’s throat ache. How long had they been friends? Did they tell each other secrets? The tips of Martin’s ears burned at the thought.

“Did you—how did you?”

“It’s a long story.” Sasha looked through her hands to the trampled grass below. “I’ll tell you sometime, but…maybe Martin here can tell you.”

 _ **I’m** Martin, _ Martin thought. But he just bit his lip and stared at her again, taking his sweet time eying the cardigan that sat loosely on her shoulders, the fold of her knees, the curve of her neck as she leaned back and looked at the sky. She held a hand up to the air, just stretching, but then she snapped back to herself with a jolt, catching something in her hands and bringing it up to her face.

“Martin! Look!” Martin craned his neck to see at the raindrop suspended in her hands. It stayed there, floating as if on a solid, human hand, before remembering that Sasha was not really there and falling to the ground with an imperceptible splatter. 

“You’re—”

“You can feel things,” Martin said, cutting off his other self before he could help it. “The—the rain. Could you feel it?”

“Yes. In fact—” Sasha shuddered and pulled her cardigan a little closer. “I’m feeling a little—” She shivered, and Martin wanted nothing more than to dissolve every atom of rain and replace it with sunshine. He’d grow a whole field of flowers for her, sprout trees and put brightly singing birds in them, too. The reality of this place wasn’t conducive to such fantasies, but at the edge of Sasha’s vision, she saw a house appear, shrouded in mist but warmly lit from the inside. 

“Hey…that wasn’t there before. Was it?” 

Martin eyed the place, its dark stone and ominous windows. 

It would have to be enough.

* * *

Sasha flung open the door and did an exaggerated bow as she held it open for the Martins.

“After you, my dear. My dears.” She giggled to herself. “Just as long as there’s—Cathy! Heathcliff! You’d better not be in here!” 

“Who’s—” Sasha feigned shock. 

“Don’t give her the satisfaction of asking,” the other Martin said lightly, brushing against Martin and testing the walls of the house. “ _She_ actually read _Wuthering Heights_ in school.”

“You can thank me for this faithful reproduction of—" 

“All due love, Sasha, I think we were in the middle of something more important.” Sasha blew a kiss to the other Martin. God, how he hated his jealousy. He should be loving, willing to take the backseat, but all he felt was a painful flutter in his stomach. This other Martin could just _say_ all the things Martin locked up in his chest. That was the Martin she wanted to be with. It had to be. 

“Hi.” Sasha pressed so close to Martin’s chest he could feel the ghostly cold against his skin.

“Hi.” 

“The other Martin and I think you’re a little too in your head right now.” She put a hand against his neck and Martin gasped. He could feel her fingers as she stroked over the birthmark there, swooping up to press her thumb against his lips. “We think something should be done about that.”

“Martin has an idea,” the other man said, weaving through the furniture to stand by her side. Sasha pressed her fingers against Martin’s mouth until his lips parted.

“You should probably tell me. He’s a little bit—oh!” Martin pulled Sasha’s finger into his mouth and sucked gently, the tip of his tongue brushing against her fingertip. Sasha stared at him, the ferocity of her gaze putting Martin in the headlights. So he simply closed his eyes and focused. A little more pressure, a little less. Long, full strokes of his tongue, then the barest hint of contact, a touch so light it might as well not be there at all. 

When he pulled back and pressed an almost imperceptible kiss to the tip of Sasha’s finger, her mouth was parted, one hand holding fast to the hem of her skirt. His eyes flicked over to the other Martin leaning against the armchair, his heart speeding up at the cool observation on his face. Approval, even. 

“What’s the one thing you’ve learned about me since you’ve been here, Sasha?” He stepped forward, and Sasha stepped back unconsciously as she looked to the ceiling in thought.

“It’s—there’s a lot to you that other people don’t know.” 

“Right.” Another imperceptible step forward, another unaware concession. “What specifically?” He leaned close enough to whisper the words and mark her slight shiver as his voice ghosted her skin. 

“You…” She cleared her throat, gripped her hands behind her back. “You always know who has control in a situation.”

“That’s right.” He smoothed back a stray curl from her face and pushed her forward gently until her back pressed against the wall. “I watch things, just like you. I take note of things, just like you. And before anyone notices—”

“Martin—”

“I’ve turned everything on its head.”

“Kiss me already,” she breathed, tilting her chin up. “Here, I think I’m present here—” She gasped as Martin pressed a kiss to where her pulse point would’ve been, the contact unmistakable. 

“Where else?”

“My shoulder, I—”

“May I?” He pulled the prim corners of her collar gently. “I’d like to do it all myself.”

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. Already she was trembling, leaning against the wall for support. He let his eyes roam over her face, the way her hair fell over her eyes as she tilted her head, shifting from one leg to another. “Yes.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” the other Martin said as he sauntered over, his coat slung over his shoulder. “I’m feeling a little warm in here. Aren’t you, Martin?”

“Not really, actually, I— _oh_. Yes. I am, in fact.” Martin stepped back to dramatically fan his face. “Quite warm.” 

“I’m so used to being out in the rain.”

“Yeah—and I’m, er—” The other Martin pulled Martin’s shirt and sweater over his head.

“What’s something Sasha _doesn’t_ know about us, Martin?” A flood of embarrassing thoughts were what came to him, of course. Bottom of the barrel stuff, scrapes and hurts and intrusive thoughts. Every stray experience that marked him as unattractive and out of place.

“None of that,” his other self said, closing the gap between them to press a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I meant the kindness.”

“The—what?” Martin stared in half-amazement as the other version cupped his face. 

“We’ve grown up more than we expected, haven’t we? We can be kind to ourselves.”

“I’ve never been good at that.”

“But _I_ am.” Martin melted into the kiss, marveling at how familiar it felt. He was right, wasn’t he? No one else could give him the care he could give himself. He decided not to protest—not when the other Martin bit his neck like he’d always craved, not when he undressed him, not even when his fingers entered him gently instead of roughly, building him up to a climax slowly as if every second with him mattered. That was it, he thought hazily, the warm waves persisting like a flower unfolding. It was as if the very act of being touched was something to respect, as if his body were revered and the other Martin was paying worship. Sasha watched, kneeling beside the chair and mentally mapping each change in his face, but really, it was just him in the room. Just him and the version of himself he never could’ve imagined, him with his kind hands and smug words and sweet adoration. It was his own name that fluttered out if his mouth when he came, the soft sigh filling up the room with hardly a smidge of shame. 

When Martin opened his eyes again, the colors seemed different, slightly shifted along the spectrum. Were the maroons that rich before? The candlelight that strong?

“You know,” Sasha said, collapsing dreamily against the edge of the chair. “There’s a quote from _Wuthering Heights_ I think you’d like.”

Martin covered his face and groaned.

“Honestly, Sasha, is now the time—”

“—It’s about love between two distinct people, but it goes, ‘he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the sa—'” 

_Hard to quote a shitty book when you’re being kissed, isn’t it?_ Martin worked his knee between her legs just enough to get her to fall open. 

“—'the _same,_ ’” Sasha finished as he pulled away. “Is how the quote ends. Before you so _rudely_ interrupted me.” She arched her back, a perfect picture of effortless allure except for the unmistakable hunger in her hands. It was her hands that revealed her, not her eyes. Her eyes took in everything; all the emotion flowed to her fingers. The clench and unfurl. The heat of her palms. 

“Will you do something for me?” Sasha twirled a lock of his hair around her index finger.

“Mm. Depends.”

“I’d like it if you stood back against the wall where I had you.”

“I’m quite comfortable, Martin. You’d have to give me a good reason.”

“Because I’d like to see how long you can stand as I kneel between your legs.”

Martin adored her for every bit of her reaction, but most of all for how her hands gripped the edge of the chair like a raft in the middle of an ocean. He could be that for her, he thought as he backed her against the wall again and undressed her button by button. He pressed a hand against her side, asking where she could feel it. He had half of her to work with, electric anticipation transforming into a shock when he found another spot that made her brace herself against the wall. He reached her shoulders and kissed her on each one. He couldn’t help but press his hands on her shoulders firmly, pinning her against the wall. Just a small gesture, a pinch of possessiveness to sprinkle across the top. He didn’t expect her knees to buckle, one hand pressed flat against the wall in a desperate bid to stay upright. He did it again, falling headfirst into love with how she crumpled but did not fall. 

“I can—I can _feel._ ”

“Tell me,” he whispered against her neck. “I want to know.” 

“Everything, it’s warm—like—” She twirled her finger in an outwards spiral, trying to illustrate the feeling. Martin pushed harder and she gasped, her mouth falling open in the loveliest little O. He pulled back just as she seemed about to collapse, but she was already too weak to stand, slumping against the wall until Martin caught her. She was beautiful in her abandon, sliding her hands up her side, lingering on her skin in self-adoration. She moaned quietly, a soft, muffled sound that pulsed its way into him as she curled around his chest. Her skin was warm, her body shuddering through the feeling as it receded. She didn’t feel ghostly at all.

Sasha pulled back from his just enough to look into his eyes. 

“I didn’t ask permission for that,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes showing quite plainly that she never intended to. Martin’s mouth was far too dry for him to respond. 

“Mm, that’s true. What do you think we should do about that?” The other Martin said, leaning over the couch, his arms folded to show off the swell of his muscles under his shirtsleeves. Aside from an unmistakable flush high in his cheeks, he looked almost coolly apart, ghostly in his detachment. He was just another version of himself, Martin knew, but the sight of him brought back an anxious flutter he’d never fully been able to swallow. 

“What, forget about me?” the other Martin said, a little petulant. “Can’t let you have all the fun.” 

“I would never think of excluding _you,_ dearest.” Sasha glided over to him, hung onto his collar. 

“‘Dearest?’ That’s a new one.”

“I think this night calls for new experiences, don’t you think?” She was leaning against him now, her tightly curled hair glowing in the flickering light. The other Martin looked beautiful, too: the cool colors of his shirt accenting the flush on his face. He couldn’t blame Sasha for reeling herself closer, for smiling against him when he kissed her.

Martin couldn’t speak. 

He knew he could be like this, absorbed in another person to the point of excess, but it was another thing to watch it unfolding. And it wasn’t even _fair_. The other him was smooth, enticing; he was the flawed one, the scrappy one. The confused participant stuck between the other man’s cool, dominant composure and Sasha’s openness. 

“I—” Martin cleared his throat, found his clothes and hurried into them. “I need some air.”

He was out of the house’s warmth before he could process the others’ protests. This was right, he thought, holding his coat close to himself as the rain dusted his forehead. The dirt was cold here, iced over. It crunched under his shoes, a soothing, rhythmic sound, like gravel trodden again and again.

The house was barely a speck in the distance. He could easily walk into the fog, where no amount of light could find him. He was split along the very boundary between hope and abandon, unable to choose a side. 

“I’ve got—Martin, there you are.” Sasha bumped into him clumsily, her arms finding their place around his waist. “Shhh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Martin tried to pretend her tears were just raindrops—it was so muggy out here, after all. He stood stock still as Sasha clung to him, already so emotionally far that he could barely marvel at how solid she felt. “Talk to me, Martin, please.”

“You don’t need me,” he started. “You’ve got _him._ ” His voice cracked on the last word, and Sasha turned him around, cupping his face and looking deeply into his eyes as she might stare down a pool of clear water. 

“But they’re both _you_. Just—different parts—”

“And he’s all that’s good about me.” Martin took Sasha’s hands from his face and gently settled them away from him. “He’s confident, and open, a-and—”

“So he says things more openly. Why does that matter?” She spoke as if soothing a rabbit with its hind leg tangled in a trap.

“Because—he—” Martin groaned. “Because that’s like your whole _thing_ , isn’t it? You like to know things about people. And I’m closed off, and angry, and probably not very interesting.”

“Martin.” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. 

“Why are you trying to comfort me? You’re just proving my point! You can’t handle what I actually am. I’m sad, and I’m lonely, and I don’t know how to get rid of it. I never have. Not even you can make me someone else, Sasha. Trust me. I’ve tried.”

“I’m not—that’s really not _fair_ , Martin.”

“Fair?” Martin tensed his shoulders and stared at the rocky outcrop made muddy by the rain. “Alright. Let’s talk fair. Let’s talk about how I never got the opportunity to grow up slowly, or have real friends, or have people speak nicely to me without wanting something in return. I got blame, and—and slurs, and doors slamming and—” It wasn’t sadness that made him cry. No, this was rage, dark and molten, some horrible substance drawn directly from the center of the earth. Every expectation, every small aggression, intended or otherwise. It was all still there, gnawing through the thin layer of fake compassion. 

“I wanted to be cared for, and all I got was abuse. I’m _not_ kind. I’m not sweet, I’m not a baby or an angel, I’m just…here. I’m just…” 

Sasha reached for him but let her hand hang an inch from his wrist. Each raindrop was so small, so insignificant. There should be enough space in between them to find relief, but they were impossible to ignore, pinprick after pinprick wheedling into every bit of her skin until she was more than just cold. She felt hollow, exposed. Empty of everything that once made her human.

It wasn’t patience that rooted her to the spot, just like it wasn’t forgiveness that kept Martin in place. They stood still because they had nowhere else to go. Martin didn’t have a plan for his self-isolation. It was just supposed to work. He’d cut everyone away and that would bring him peace, somehow. 

Now Sasha was here, obstinate as he was. She sucked in a lungful of cold air, her exhale rushed and unsteady, and something else took over when he heard that short, shuddery sound. 

“Alright.”

“Alright what?” Martin could tell from her voice how tightly she held herself against the cold threat of rejection, not to mention the rain. God, what was he doing out here? 

“Let’s go back to the house.”

* * *

“What are you afraid of?”

Martin looked around the living room. The plush carpets looked darker now, the paintings on the walls, too. Everything dimmed, the lights a sleepy orange. The other Martin was nowhere to be found.

“I don’t think you’ll like who I am,” he said quietly. Sasha got up, restless, pacing.

“So there’s a _you_ you don’t show anyone. Alright, even if you understand yourself well enough to make a complete distinction between this mythical, unsavory Martin, do you really think you have such complete control to keep that much of yourself hidden?” She cut off his protests, her hands whirling in front of her face. “So what, you’ve managed to do what no one else can? You’re a perfect actor, Martin—is that what you’re telling me?” She pressed a hand to her chest and swallowed the sob that threatened to overwhelm her.

“Or is this more likely?” She let her voice grow soothing again, moonflowers opening in the dead of night. “Is it more likely that all of us could see those hidden parts of you all along? Your cover was imperfect, and we loved you all the same?”

Martin folded his hands in his lap and let himself cry.

“I don’t want you to be perfect. I don’t want you to pour the cleanest parts of yourself in a tiny jar and cut up the rest.”

Martin rested his forehead hesitantly against her shoulder, and she covered his head with kisses. 

“I love you. I love you. I’ve always—” 

Martin took her hand and pressed it to the top of his head. 

“Please, Martin. Tell me all the things you’re afraid to say.” 

“I worry I’m…” He paused, started again. “I can be so mean sometimes.”

“I know,” she replied, stroking his hair. “What else?”

“I want to hurt the people who have hurt me.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” 

“And when I can’t do that, I...” They were both crying now, Sasha’s reassurances peppered with thick sobs. Martin cried quietly, a thin line of tears flowing into Sasha’s shirt. “I tell myself lies and I believe them.”

“I know you do.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You convince yourself you have to care for everyone.”

“I just want to be needy sometimes,” he said. “I want to be pampered. I want to be powerful enough to be rude. I don’t want to answer to anyone ever again.”

“I know.” She laughed, the sound rough with tears. “But to be fair, Martin, you’re already a bit rude.”

“Probably could’ve considered that before you told me to be ‘my true self’ or whatever it was you said.” Martin nuzzled Sasha’s shoulder, and she could feel his smile. 

“Why, planning on exercising your rudeness?” Sasha was sure Martin would’ve had a particularly juicy retort to that had he not been overcome with the perplexing feeling of being two people at once. He couldn’t flirt with her just then, understandably; he was too busy looking at a copy of his body hovering an inch next to his skin, a glitched double. He gasped, and the other self fell away from him, solidifying into a near-perfect replica.

“I almost thought you’d gotten rid of me for good.”

“Martin!” Sasha made a heart with her hands. “My other favorite boy is back!”

“Wait—” Martin pointed back and forth from his chest to his other self. “So you were just—waiting—”

“I couldn’t do that part for you.”

“Well, you really should’ve. Could’ve saved me a lot of strife.” But Martin felt lighter as he stood up and stretched. Even the light was brighter now, a sunnier glow that made joy seem possible. “Alright, I—” Martin looked each of his companions in the eyes. “I think we should talk until I feel sorted out.”

* * *

“Are you sure you’re OK with this?” Sasha sat on the edge of the armchair, her elbows digging into her thighs. “We can just be friends for a while. We don’t have to push it.”

“I’m going to have to go back out there eventually,” Martin replied, fixated with the way her body coiled taut, a spring just begging to be told to relax. “There are things I’ve wanted—I won’t be able to leave if I know you’re here, and I haven’t—haven’t—” He glanced over at the other Martin a little helplessly, but the other man showed only amusement, not pity.

“You should tell her what you mean, Martin.”

“Ugh, fine, you’re the wors—Sasha.” He turned abruptly from his infuriating other self and into the eyes of the woman who had captivated him since they first met. “What I _meant_ was, er, I want—”

“Spit it out, Martin,” the other Martin said, his legs draped over the edge of the couch.

“—to eat you out. _You—_ ” He pointed at the other Martin. “Are _not_ helping. Sasha, is that—” Martin caught sight of her hands bunching up fistfuls of her skirt. “I’m assuming that’s something you’ll like?”

She sat, almost frozen, coming back to herself with a start. 

“Just had a thought—what if I’m not—” She pressed her knuckles against her mouth to stop herself from laughing. “I mean—if I’m not—completely _solid_ everywhere—” The other Martin and Sasha’s laughter filled the room. 

“You—you _awful_ peop—you can’t honestly—I’m leaving.” Martin made an exaggerated show of pulling on his coat, and Sasha made an equally theatric swoon against the arm of the couch.

“No, Martin, don’t go!”

“I’ve had enough of you two. And you know what?” He walked over to Sasha and leaned very close to her face. “I think I’ll let you think on what I’ve told you for a few hours.”

“Oh, that’s funny—wait. You don’t _actually mean_ —”

“I’ll just wait until you’re ready.”

* * *

Martin watched the other Martin kiss her neck from his perch on the couch. He sat cross-legged, rocking back and forth slightly, close enough to feel the way the distance between them compressed and expanded, knotted with miniature shockwaves. He barely touched her, the palms of his hands skidding over her exposed skin as he helped her out of her shirt and tossed it to the floor. It was almost admirable, the extent of his self-control, how he barely gave Sasha any relief except the sweep of a fingertip every now and then.

Sasha held onto her composure as long as she could, but soon she was pressing herself against him, pulling his sweater over his head with unsteady hands. When the other Martin guided her over to him, she was exactly as he wanted her: wavering, almost drunk. Her anticipation ripe for the taking.

Martin leaned against one arm of the couch; the other Martin took the opposite side. Sasha lay between them, her head resting on the other Martin’s chest, her mouth screwing up as Martin ran his hands up her calves. He was slow, meticulous. He kept his eyes on her face as he teased the back of her knees, the flicker of a laugh lighting up her face.

“You feel how careful he is with you? We’ve thought about that for years.” There was a hum in the back of Martin’s mind, a low, buzzing sound that he felt rather than heard. He shuddered as he slowly pressed forward, stroking the inside of her thighs and making her gasp. “You’ll have to wait for it, just like we did.” 

“I—I know,” she said, squirming to try to get Martin closer, but he simply pulled his hands up and hooked his fingers clumsily into the elastic of her skirt. Her eyes were closed now, her whole body chasing sensation as he bunched up the chiffon and tugged it past her ankles. When he put his fingers back on her, she gasped. He was higher now, near enough to brush against the hood of her clit. When he passed over that spot in favor of her hips, Sasha cursed softly at him, pushing herself up to try to draw him back. 

“You—you can’t think—don’t, please Martin, _please_.”

“He can take as long as he wants.”

“But—” She rolled her hips again, and the other Martin laughed into her hair. She forced herself to open her eyes, the helpless vulnerability there melting him so thoroughly his hands trembled. 

“I _need_ you.”

When Martin obliged and pressed two fingers against the slick fabric, she sighed, a soft sound amping into a whine when he repeated the gesture. She was lovely like this, her breathing strained and irregular, her thighs trembling against his arms as he lightly traced her slit.

“Patience, Sasha,” the other Martin whispered. Martin could imagine the heat of his breath against her neck; he was pleased with the other version of himself, his endless capacity to tease and work up. It wasn’t so bad, having two of yourself, especially when he finally dragged her underwear down her legs and kissed the innermost part of her thigh.

She made such a needy, helpless sound that Martin couldn’t help but close his eyes and do it again. Desperation was a familiar feeling, but he’d never experienced it like this, the flood of it directed at him. He licked at her entrance once, twice. He was hers to tease, the flat of his tongue sweeping closer to her clit, pulling back when she tried to push him in with a weak thrust of her hips. God, the _sounds_ she made. The messy whimpers, the words half-said and dissolved on her tongue. 

“We’ve always wanted something like this, you know,” the other Martin murmured against her hair. “The ability to be everywhere at once.” Martin was so close to where she needed him, the sparks pooling in her belly almost unbearable. “I fantasized about being inside your thoughts,” he said, timing the kiss he pressed to the top of her head with the long swipe of Martin’s tongue. “How does it feel, seeing both sides of us at once? The duality of our devotion?” Sasha whimpered, tried in vain to press her clit inside Martin’s mouth. “I love you softly, and I love you like the ocean tearing itself into waves.” 

“You—you should—mmph, Martin, you shou— _fuck_ —I, please, I missed you, _please_ —” 

“I can tell you everything I’ve ever felt about you. Everything I’ve noticed about you. Every detail about how I perceive you.” Sasha dug her fingers into Martin’s hair and pulled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Every stray thought that crossed my mind?” Her mouth formed the edges of words she couldn’t manage, not with Martin stroking circles into her hips, the edge of his tongue pressing against the tip of her clit, coaxing her ever so slightly deeper into his mouth until he sucked, long and insistent and—

Sasha tried to say his name and whined, a helpless sound that turned into a moan when he did it again, and again, his tongue just barely inside her. She was too sensitive for this—the electricity of the pressure, the movements of his tongue finally entering her. Martin’s palms on her hips, another Martin’s thumb pressing against her nipple, his forefinger ghosting the underside of her breast. One of the Martins said something against her neck, something sweet and smug and dripping with praise. He moved his hand to her side, traced his fingertips over her ribs and watched her squirm into it. 

For too long she’d wanted something. A glance, a kind touch on her forehead. Here was everything. His eyes on her, his mouth, the fullness, the pressure—

“Martin, I, I—” She forced her eyes open and the sight of the other Martin’s face, flushed and pleased and a little bit disheveled made her buck her hips and reach desperately for the rough upholstery. “ _Fuck,_ I—” She whined as he kissed her hand then bent over her to kiss her chest. “I _need,_ I—”

“I’m here,” he said, placing his hand right where her heartbeat would’ve been. “Is this where you want to feel it? Is this what you’ve wanted?” Her whole body was shaking, the sensations melding together until she couldn’t distinguish herself from Martin, Martin from the other version of himself. She was melting into the pleasure and the warmth, the teasing and the reverence. It was her they loved. It was her.

She felt wholly complete when Martin pressed on her heart, each layer of feeling becoming more real. There was nothing more human than this, she thought as the warmth built to an unbearable heat, Martin’s mouth tight and fluid and endless around her clit. She was real, she was real, she was loved.

She could feel Martin’s eyes on her as she came, the tension peaking and receding. She felt soft in a way she never had before, vulnerable and satisfied and looked after in every possible configuration. 

“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” the other Martin said, cradling Sasha’s head in his lap. “Didn’t expect you to have that kind of stamina.”

“Piss off,” Martin muttered weakly, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand. “How’d I do?” 

“Mmm.” Sasha couldn’t even open her eyes. 

“Best you’ve ever had?”

“Not a competition,” she said, a warm smile spreading across her face. “But you literally brought me back from the dead.” The other Martin helped her sit up and wrapped his arms around her gently. “And you!” She swatted his arm. “That mouth of yours is something else.”

“Shouldn’t that be _my_ mouth?” Martin said at the foot of the couch, the confidence already getting to him. 

“But you’re—it’s the same—you’re insufferable,” she said, reaching for the cushion with her heel and pushing her face into her hands when it proved to be out of reach. “You horrible, attractive, endlessly infuriating men. Man. Men?” 

Martin pushed his hair back from his face and wiggled closer to Sasha’s side. 

“I don’t want to go back out there.”

Unlike the rest of his domain, nothing about this room was suited to his tastes. The colors were all wrong, the furniture too plush and ornate. The windows too tight to let the drafts in. But he would willingly stay here for eternity if he could, giving up all hope of a reformed world for an endless, frozen existence with Sasha and himself. 

“I know you don’t, love.” She curved one arm around his, laced their fingers together. “I wish the world gave you more than cruelty.”

“It’s all doom out there. I don’t know if I—can it even be fixed?” He turned to Sasha. Already her grip on his arm was softer, cool like early morning air. “Do you know what I’m supposed to do?”

She looked into his pleading eyes and kissed his forehead.

“I don’t. I don’t think anyone does.”

“If I manage it, and the world turns out OK—” Saved, went the voice in his head. Savior, he longed to call himself. “Can I come back to you? Will you be here?”

Sasha faded before she could answer, but in the faintest cold wind, Martin could taste the edge of raspberries, the hint of a promise.

* * * 

Martin stood at the edge of his domain. Past the comforting chill and damp lay the unknown chaos of unbridled fear. It was just him and the mismatched contents of his backpack, just him and his stubborn refusal to accept anything less than hope.

Just one of him. Just a microscopic flicker of resilience. 

It would have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> sasha james never read _wuthering heights_. she's such a liar.


End file.
